


Dominus Tecum

by navree



Series: Ave Trilogy [2]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Detective Noir, Film Noir, Multi, Murder Mystery, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Stalking, but you can't take the gay detective thriller out of the girl, guess who's back? back again?, that's right babies it's me!!!, you can take the girl out of the gay detective thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-04-26 19:12:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14408703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navree/pseuds/navree
Summary: It had been foolish to think that maybe, just maybe, they were getting on top. They weren't. They were at the bottom. They were losing, badly. And now they were being targeted.Almost two years after a fire seemingly claimed the lives of C.C. Tinsley and Dr. Fear, things go from heated to deadly. And it's up to ghosts of the past and victims of the future to stop it.





	1. Stranger In A Bar

The sign behind the singer, that one singular name, shone like a beacon on a stormy night, the neon so bright, so close to blinding, that it was impossible for any newcomer to make out what color it was supposed to be (red). It provided an atmospheric backdrop to the jazz that bled through the warm air, thick and sultry. _Ricky's_ was crowded, as it always was, the bar packed and smokey and dense in a way that would have made it claustrophobic if it was any other establishment other than Ricky's. Francesca Norris had made it the hotbed of the city in the year and change she had bought was was then called  _Bobby Mackey's_  from then owner Ricky Goldsworth. And while the place hadn't done badly under Goldsworth, it was doing much better under Francesca. It was packed. 

And among the various patrons was a man, a stranger, sitting at the bar, downing whiskey sours to take the edge off the heat. Just as winters in the city could be icy cold, summers could be as hot as the Sahara Desert. He did not normally frequent bars, and he certainly didn't normally frequent _this_ bar, but tonight was an exception. It was hot, and he was thirsty, and he was also on the look out. He had only recently come back to the city after a trip, and was trying to find someone. So even as he nursed his whiskey sours he made sure to stay on the alert, routinely scanning the patrons frequenting _Ricky's_. 

There was the singer on the stage, Selena, dark hair falling over a smooth tanned shoulder, gloss shining on upwardly curved lips. The stranger tuned out her voice, melodic as it was, eyes surreptitiously scanning the rest of the establishment. At a table he was rapidly coming to realize was almost theirs and theirs alone were the two reporters from the _Unsolved_ column, a column whose quick and meteoric rise to popularity had been both stunning and to be expected at the same time. The stranger focused on their conversation for a moment. 

_"There is a well of proof, both scientific and-"_

_"No, don't say scientific, you can't say scientific-"_

_"It is scientific, even if-"_

_"It's not scienti-"_

_"Even if you refuse to believe in the truth-"_

_"That ghoulie ghosts exist? No fucking way-"_

_"They do-"_

Nothing of substance from Shane Madej and Ryan Bergara. At least, not to their eavesdropper. The stranger turned away, signaling for a new drink. Long fingers played with a napkin, shredding it quietly and systematically as his eyes roved. They were drawn, eventually, to another conversation. One participant he recognized: Francesca Norris, easily the most beautiful woman present, she who had injected the place with new life after Goldsworth had finally sold. She was wearing a bright red cocktail dress that he had seen maybe once or twice before, tight and striking against her dark skin, a matching headband nestled in her black hair. He didn't recognize the man Francesca was talking to, enveloped in shadow with his head turned away. He was lanky, that much the stranger saw, and leaned towards Francesca in such a way that denoted an important conversation. He tuned in. 

_"How'd they manage..."_ Francesca's question was lost in the white noise of the rest of the establishment, and the stranger himself edged forward, straining to hear. The man she was talking to started responding, voice too low for anything more than one frightening tidbit to be heard. 

_"...Dr. Fear..."_

The stranger's veins turned to ice. His heart thudded unevenly in his chest, and he sat back heavily, pulse racing. No. No, it couldn't be. He hadn't heard that name in practically two years. Even the mere possibility of what that name could bring made him shake. For a moment, it was as if he was underwater. Everything sounded tinny and hollow, and he barely even noticed when Francesca Norris moved away from her conversation partner towards Selena, who had just finished her set. The bartender put the whiskey sour down in front of the stranger. He downed it instantly, letting the burn of the alcohol soothe his nerves. There was no reason to get into a tizzy over a name. The name wasn't the issue. 

It was the people who knew the name. 

The stranger focused again on the now solitary man, who was still enveloped in the dark, no doubt taking sharp and quick glances at everything, judging by the almost constant movement of his head. And then, it stopped, the shadow facing him directly. He had been made. For a moment, the two stared each other down. The stranger got a prickling feeling along his spine, and curled his fingers into fists. 

The man pushed back his chair and stood abruptly then, without waiting, began to leave, weaving deftly through the crowd. The stranger followed hastily, mimicking his ever move, keeping his eyes clear on the one he was following. He almost crashed into a newly arrived patron, a man with dark, gelled back hair, and briefly lost sight of his target. He managed to see him, whipping open the door of an employee exit and swiftly disappearing. The stranger did the same, catching the door before it swung closed and edging himself out. 

He found himself in an alleyway, light by flickering signs of pink and blue and purple hues, advertising clubs and bars and seedy parlors. Near the stranger's shoe was a puddle, the sole residue of last night's summer shower. Steam billowed from somewhere further down the alley; he wasn't entirely sure where. In that one minute, he wondered where the man he'd been following could have gone. 

He got his answer very soon. Instantly, he was pressed up against a brick wall, the rough texture digging into his back, a long and lanky body pressed up hard against his. He gasped, and focused on the man pinning him in place. The oxygen left his body. 

"You-!" The arm holding him moved from his chest to his throat, cutting off his air, digging into his windpipe. The stranger choked and squirmed. After what could have only been a minute but had felt like more, he was released, and the stranger fell to his knees, coughing. The assailant stepped back, now illuminated, allowing the stranger to look at him full in the face. 

The neon colors reflected off his hair, washing the sandy blond out to white. His eyes were still that electric blue, that pale robin's egg color that somehow managed to stay the same no matter the environmental lighting. His physique was the same, tall and reed thin. For a moment, the stranger was baffled as to why he hadn't figured it out back at the club; very few people were this instantly recognizable. It was the trench coat, he decided. The trench coat was as iconic as the rest of the appearance, at least to those of them who knew of this man's existence and eccentricities.

He wasn't used to picturing C.C. Tinsley in his head without the trench coat that had flapped at the edges of the LCD's nightmares. 

"You're supposed to be dead!" Tinsley looked at him cooly, as if daring him to stand, to see what happened if he tried. Coming to physical blows had never been the stranger's style or forte; he stayed on the ground. 

"And yet, here I am." 

"Here you are," the stranger repeated, still massaging his throat. "Still pretty as a picture." Tinsley's smile was as false as the modesty he infused it with. "I thought you would look like blackened bone." The smile fell; the eyes became the Arctic. 

"That would be the other guy." His gaze went far away when he said that, as if reliving a memory. But the stranger knew better than to try and run. Anyone who could  put together as complicated a plot as the Sodder family debacle would not be so entranced in the past to simply just let someone go. 

"Then you're lucky." The stranger lowered his hand, and yet remained on the ground. "But what are you doing here?" Tinsley tilted his head quizzically. "Why are you back in town?" 

"Just because Dr. Fear is gone doesn't mean the people who put him in power have gone that same way. Unfortunately," he added, with no small measure of distaste in his voice. The stranger raised his eyebrows, feeling a shock go through his system. "That's surprising?" 

"No, not that." Fear was, after all, a cog in a machine. A very important cog, a second in command cog, a cog with as much influence as one could possibly have without being the big boss, but still, a cog nonetheless. Losing the cog hadn't meant losing the machine. "I just didn't realize you would still be so...keen on that particular inquiry." 

"Being dead does wonders for your ability to obsessively focus on things," Tinsley commented dryly. "But I'm not here to just make idle chitchat in an alley outside a bar." The blue eyes flickered towards the door, and that same far away look made as if to creep back into them. He shook himself out of it quickly. "I'm here for a purpose."

"And what purpose would that be?" the stranger demanded. Tinsley fixed his gaze back on him. 

"You." Something about it, the implications, sent a spine down the stranger's chest. "I'm here for you. I've been trying to get you alone for two days now." The thought of that did not sit right in the stranger's head. 

"Why?" 

"Because I need information, and you seem like one of the few members of your evil cult spineless enough to do what I say and not immediately set people on my tail." He would have been offended if the description hadn't been so dead on accurate. Tinsley seemed aware that what he had said was harsh, and gave the other man a look that was almost apologetic. What a conundrum, this reanimated corpse was. 

"What information do you need?" Tinsley crouched down beside him, long legs folding as he did so. He was close enough that the stranger could see a faint, silvery line, a scar, on his throat, parallel to the ground, as if someone had tried to slit a clean line evenly along his windpipe. He wondered what Tinsley had been doing the past year and change to acquire such a scar. 

"I need to know where I can find a man by the name of Banjo McClintock."


	2. Ricky Goldsworth, P.I.

It was less dark in the office than it had been that morning when Ricky had first broken in. It was summer, for one, and the sun burned longer and hotter than it had back then. The blinds were also pulled up, allowing the light to pour in rather than trickle through the breaks in the slats. It was one of the many ways Ricky had, in the year and multiple months since this office had become _his_ office, attempted to make a differentiation between him and its previous occupant. It was lighter, for one, thanks to Ricky's penchant for open blinds. And neater, everything carefully organized and filed. There was none of the chaos and clutter that had once marked it with as much character as the man it had belonged to. 

Sitting at the desk, Ricky was bent low over several sheafs of paper, dark eyes narrowed at the words almost suspiciously. Two months ago, he had managed to close a bribery case that had come to his door, and gotten it referred to the appropriate authorities. But something about it was gnawing at him. It was a lead, of that much he was certain, but to and from where he wasn't entirely sure. 

Ever since he had taken up the mantle of private detective, Ricky had fought tooth and nail to make finding the LCD and bringing them to their knees his top priority.  Every case he had fought for since then had some connection, however tenuous, to his efforts. And sometimes they got him places, sometimes they didn't, but they all generated information that he could file away and save for later. With everything he had accumulated, Ricky was wondering if he should start pinning pictures to a cork board to keep track. 

It looked as if this bribery case might be LCD connected. But even after he solved it, he was still trying to figure out how. It was a constant question, a massive headache, more than almost anything else he'd had to deal with since becoming a private detective. The reveries were interrupted by the sound of the door banging open, signaling a new arrival. And there was only one person he knew who wouldn't even try to knock, who would simply waltz in here as if she owned the place. Of course, Ricky didn't necessarily mind it. 

One of the first things he noticed was that Louise Owen looked _good_. From a purely objective reasoning, she just looked much better than she had when they'd first met, almost two years ago during that frigid winter, where she had been so pale and so slim as to appear ill. She was still slender, but not to an unhealthy degree, and she was still pale, but moreso from natural coloring than from stress or lack of sleep. The distinction came to Ricky now in more stark of a contrast than it had when he'd seen her last week, because she had a bounce in her step and looked as if she was glowing. He stood. 

"District Attorney Owen." Ricky's lips curved upwards in a smile, the same one Louise shot in his direction. Her election win and subsequent rise in both political popularity and influence had been one of the best things that could have happened. It did help to be friends with one of the most influential members of the city's legal system. "What can I do for you?"

"I've got news," Louise began, sans preamble. " _Good_ news."

"Good news is better than no news," Ricky conceded, moving his current maddening file to the side. "Please tell me it's about the bribery." Louise shook her head, planting herself in the chair opposite him, on the other side of his desk. 

"Unfortunately, no it's not." Ricky made a disappointed hum. "I'm having people look into that though. They'll let me know if anything important comes their way." She leaned forward, legs crossed and elbows pressed against the knees. "But this is something I thought you should hear, and definitely from me." Ricky motioned for her to continue. "I was talking to Francesca, over at _Ricky's_ , and she let slip something she'd heard through the grapevine." Ricky noticed, somewhat to his surprise, that Louise's hands were shaking. "The Italians managed to identify a collarbone." He felt his stomach bottom out, and gripped at the armrest of his chair, as if worried that he would somehow managed to fall out of it due to the shock. 

"What?" 

"Yeah." The ever so slightly hectic sparkle in Louise's sloe eyes started making sense. "They managed to piece through that entire ashen mess and figure out that at least one remain could be identified as a collarbone. And then they did testing-I don't know what kind-to figure out who it belonged to." Ricky stood again. There was suddenly an abundance of energy in his body, that made him want to jump or run or wave his arms like an idiot until he exhausted it all. He opted for pacing instead. 

"Who?" He fought very hard to make sure his voice didn't shake. "Whose bone is it?" Louise bit down on her lip very hard, and Ricky wanted to go over and pull her hand away lest she draw blood. 

"It's Dr. Fear's." The breath left Ricky's lungs in one giant gust. And even though he knew it was horrible, even though he knew that he, as a somewhat decent human being, shouldn't do it, he smiled wide, feeling the grin break out across his face, even felt a small burble of a chuckle try to escape past his lips. Louise too had a similar reaction, flashing her dimples. There was something cathartic, hypnotic almost, in knowing that the one who had caused them both so much suffering was no categorically and provably dead. 

"He's really gone?" Ricky, for the first time in a while, dared himself to let hope in his heart. Louise nodded. 

"He's really gone. He's dead." The energy within him gave a huge surge, and Ricky, in a stunning and rare display, was at Louise's side, lifting her out of the chair and into his arms in a tight embrace. He felt a slight convulsion of laughter as she held onto him for a few moments, before they both released each other. How macabre of they, how horrendous of their lives, that the confirmation of the death of another human gave them both this rush of endorphins. 

_Oh well._  

"That is...such a relief," Ricky sighed, leaning against the desk. "Which sounds horrible to say, but it's true." 

"Trust me, as someone who's hated the man since the moment I laid eyes on him, I couldn't agree more." Louise sat back down, shoulders relaxed. Ricky smiled, even as another thought, marginally less pleasant, began sneaking into his mind. She noticed. "What're you thinking?" He shrugged casually. 

"That there's a bittersweet note to all of this," Ricky admitted. "Because now that they've started identifying things, it's only a matter of time before they figure out which are his, and which..." He trailed off. Louise made a sympathetic noise, and reached out to touch his arm lightly. "Well, it's not like it'll be new information." Ricky stood and moved back to his chair, sitting down in it. Confirming Fear's death was amazing. Realizing that confirming Fear's meant it was only a matter of time before they confirmed Tinsley's? Not so much. "Sorry for the mood damper." 

"Don't be. Nobody judges people for being sad over the hardships of death." 

It _had_ been bad, at first. In the immediate aftermath, Ricky had essentially gone into hibernation. Physically incapable of returning to the apartment and office he and Tinsley had once shared, he had invited into Louise's home to barricade himself in the guest bedroom. To her credit, she didn't begrudge it, or give him a timeline of how long he could stay. She let him grieve for however long he needed to. And when he was done, when he emerged back into the real world, Tinsley's death did feel more like a dull ache, a bruise, rather than snapping bones or a knife dragged across his skin. But just because it was a fading bruise now didn't mean that it wouldn't hurt if someone pressed down hard on it. 

"Well, having work to do helped," Ricky said, bringing himself back to the present. 

"Yeah, I know the feeling." Louise leaned back in her seat, running a hand through dark hair. "But don't let work become your whole life." 

"That is very rich," Ricky mocked, "coming from the District Attorney who seems to want to personally oversee every single criminal case that comes across the desk of any of her deputies and assistants."

"I'm their boss!" Louise protested. "I'm simply being thorough." 

"Or being a workaholic," Ricky muttered under his breath. Louise scoffed playfully. To be fair, he was in no position to judge. He was borderline obsessed with his work ever since he'd started getting this operation up and running, six months after Florence. And he hadn't even tried to be with someone else after Tinsley. And to his knowledge, Louise had remained unattached after the deadly disaster that had been Artemus Ogletree. Even D.B. Cooper was keeping his flirtations to a minimum, though likely for more reasons than just one. 

"I got a postcard from Cooper too." It was as if even thinking about the former con had propelled him into the conversation, into the forefront of their minds. Which wasn't necessarily an unpleasant direction, Cooper was by far one of the best things any investigation could have, what with his wealth of knowledge and his penchant for doing whatever it took to get things done. Louise fished it out of her pockets, and indeed, the address was written in Cooper's familiar, scrawling handwriting. Louise flipped it over, reading the message on the back. " _14 and 10._ " Ricky did some quick thinking in his head. It was Cooper who had suggested that any written messages be written in what they were deeming Sodder Code: write letters down as the number they are in the alphabet, and then pick the letter right after that to figure out what the message was. The fourteenth letter of the alphabet was N, the tenth letter was J. 

"OK? That's the message?" Louise nodded, handing the postcard to Ricky. She was right. Other than the address, the only thing written were those two numbers, 14 and 10. "Huh." 

"I think he's just letting us know that everything's all right and we don't need to worry." A flicker of relief crossed Louise's face. As of almost two months ago, since Cooper had decided to go about the world, incognito, to figure out why most of their LCD leads were becoming even more secretive than they already were - spurred on by the confusing bribery case and how helpful and dead end it seemed at the same time - they always looked forward to Cooper's correspondence. It meant that he was at least safe enough to send it. 

"He could also be foregoing Sodder Code altogether and telling us that he's in the scenic state of New Jersey," Ricky joked. It lightened the mood slightly. "He hasn't said yet why they've been quieter, even by their standards, has he? Why there's been nothing LCD related for us to investigate in these past two months?" Louise shook her head.

"Either he hasn't figured it out or he's figured it out and isn't telling me for some reason."

"It's the former. He's Cooper, he'd tell you if he found a used tissue tossed away by one of them." Louise made a face in his direction, waving an airy hand. "Well, I'm trying to convince myself that this is a good thing." 

"How do you figure?" 

"Them going quiet could mean that we're actually winning," Ricky explained. "And I'd really like to be winning." If Ricky were optimistic, or perhaps idealistic even, that would be the only thought path he would consider. If he were a pessimist, he would wonder if they were merely being tricked into heading towards an epic loss. But he was neither an optimist nor a pessimist; he was a realist. And being a realist meant that he was certain about neither option. He was just cautious, confused, and soon, he would be scared. 


	3. Oppressive Night

It was always hot, that was a given fact. Most of the time it was a dry heat, one that invoked static electricity and dust and bloody noses from dried capillaries. But sometimes, especially at night, it could turn muggy, damp. It was why Ricky was heading over to the bar now named after him in nothing but his shirt and pants, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. It felt a little bit weird; he was always used to being formal when he went over there. Not that he went to Ricky's as much as he had before, nor did he have any reason to be formal. He didn't have an image to project. It wasn't his club. 

Sometimes it felt bizarre. He'd bought the place from Robert Randall Mackey what felt like an eternity ago, had everyone there under his employ what felt like an eternity ago as well. During that time, it felt as if Bobby Mackey's had been intrinsically tied to him. Ricky had been there as many nights as he can, and had forged a deep friendship with the people working there, friendships that had lasted even after he had retreated into his grief bubble and then sold to Francesca Norris. He still went to what was now _Ricky's_ , but with far less frequency than he had used to. 

The first reason, of course, was obvious. Not only did Ricky have nothing to do with it anymore, but he had a different job now, one that required a significant amount of time spent on it. It made visits to the bar few and far in between, however much he wanted to talk to Francesca Norris, or have a drink and catch up with Selena. As such, his time spent there, or anywhere near this part of town, was severely limited. 

The other reason, the one he very rarely admitted to himself, was that spending time at _Ricky's_ reminded him of the years where it hadn't been _Ricky's_. It reminded him of _Bobby Mackey's_ , and of the life he'd had during that time, and the people he'd met and frequented with there. He had quite a few ghosts, Ricky Goldsworth did, and sometimes they flitted in and out of his consciousness, especially when he himself visited the places they had once shared. All it took was to see a young man alone at a bar and he thought of Artemus Ogletree. Or perhaps he would hear someone whispering, and think of Dr. Fear's soft and deadly voice. Or, worst of all, someone would trip, or forget to take off their hat, or even be tall, and Ricky would think of Tinsley, of Tinsley's voice and his smile and his touch and the way he had made Ricky _feel_ , and his heart would constrict just a little bit. After all, his new life, his new profession, hinged on the fact that Tinsley wasn't around anymore, and that Ricky had taken it upon himself to carry the other man's mantle in whatever way he could. Sometimes, thinking about that particular detail ached.

The dark haired man tried not to dwell on this too much. The past was in the past, and there it would remain. Besides, he had almost 90% moved on from Tinsley, 100% moved on from Artemus Ogletree. He suspected that a part of him would always care for Tinsley's memory, like a treasured possession one would keep tucked away far from view, only taken out on momentous occasions. There and present, but not overtly so. But just because he was no longer actively in love with and actively grieving Tinsley didn't mean he wanted any reminders of him around. 

Ricky shook his head, banishing those thought. The only reason any of this was dredging itself up now was because of the news about Dr. Fear. That was it, that was all. These thoughts had all been hashed out in his mind ever since they'd gotten the Sodder children back to their parents. 

Perhaps Louise was right. Maybe he did need to stop focusing on his work so much and try to get out more. It would do wonders for his personality. Maybe.

Ricky's hand came up to his forehead to brush away dark curls; it was damp with sweat when he pulled it away. He had been walking at a fast clip, and the weather was positively swamp like tonight. No doubt there was another summer shower on the horizon. Ricky stopped for a moment, and fanned himself, breathing in and out. This city dealt with the weather in too many extremes. The winters were pitifully cold, and the summers were ridiculously warm. It got annoying. 

Something warmed the back of Ricky's neck. It felt as if someone was staring at him, glaring even. Cringing in on himself, Ricky turned around, expecting to see someone focusing on him. No one. The street was empty. Which made sense, given his penchant for taking little known back alleys to places, in order to avoid unwanted interactions with all kinds of characters. Shaking his head at his own paranoia, the detective began walking again. He was only a few minutes away from _Ricky's_ anyway. 

It was the sound of heel on stone that alerted him to the fact that something was amiss. Because when Ricky turned around again, he was still alone. But when he started walking, he could almost hear another set of footsteps joining him. Soft, quiet, a predator stalking prey almost. As an experiment, Ricky stopped abruptly, straining his ears to pick up any sound. He heard one, the scuff of a shoe against the ground as whoever was apparently following skidded to the unexpected stop. Ricky felt his heart clamber in his throat. 

There were never any benign reasons for trying to surreptitiously follow someone. Especially if that someone did not necessarily have the most benign of jobs, or the most benign of associates. Ricky began walking again, quick, hands curled into fists at his side. The bar was only minutes away. As long as he could stave off whatever or whoever was feeling the need to stalk him in the dark, he should be fine. If not, he was capable of throwing a few punches. And if it was one of _them_ , Ricky was damn certain that he wouldn't go down with a heavy fight. They walked in the dark, almost jogging, together but separate, nobody making a sound. Nobody daring to make the first move in whatever this was, no one wanting to escalate this into a full on chase.

It felt as if Ricky was entering the pearly gates of Heaven itself when he wrenched open the door to the bar and slid in, letting the music and the voices and the smell of smoke and alcohol calm his racing heart. Nobody entered behind him. For a moment, Ricky stayed in the shadows, leaning against the wall, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. Not only was he ever so slightly winded, he found himself a bit scared. The LCD connection in his bribery case was tenuous at best, and he'd kept himself well under the radar since Florence. What possible reason could they have to start hounding his every move now? And if it wasn't them, then who the Hell was it? What new enemy was trying to start shit now? 

"Hey." Ricky jerked towards where Selena stood, staring at him with concern in her big brown eyes. He hadn't even registered the fact that she wasn't on stage, that the piano was the only thing making music. 

"Hey." Ricky peeled himself off the wall and gave her a one armed embrace. "How are you?" 

"I'm good. You, on the other hand, do not look good at all." Selena was never one to mince words. A hand on the small of his back, she led him over to the bar. The bartender knew Ricky well enough; he was already pouring him a bourbon. Ricky knocked it back as soon as the glass was in his hand. "Rough night?" By this time, Ricky's heart rate was slowing down enough that he felt a bit foolish. 

"Ah, I'm just being a panicky mess." He waved an airy hand. It shook only slightly. "I had a potentially unusual moment outside." 

"Potentially unusual?" As was her way, Francesca Norris slid into the conversation without so much as an introduction, inserting herself seamlessly into the current dynamic. Her nails, painted scarlet, tapped against the bar. She tossed a seductively wide smile in Selena's direction. The singer ducked her head, cheeks rosy, before drifting away. Ricky stopped himself from smirking. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Which you can't have, because we all know ghosts aren't real." Ricky laughed and resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at her. "Seriously. You OK?" 

"I'm fine, thanks." The bartender set another bourbon down before him. This time, Ricky took just a small, measured sip. "I thought someone might have been trying to follow me. But since nobody came in after me, I'm coming to the conclusion it might have been all in my head." Francesca raised a dark eyebrow at him. "I'm serious. I'm probably just being paranoid." The woman gave him a long, measured look. " _Really_." 

"If you say so." 

"I do say so." Francesca shrugged, fingers still tapping a rhythm. "Now, don't you have a bar singer to go flirt with?" 

"Who says all we're doing is flirting?" Francesca teased mischievously, a knowing glint in her eye. Ricky hiccuped into his drink, almost inhaling the alcohol through his nose. 

"I don't need to know that." Francesca's response was nothing but a glimmering smile before she sauntered away, back into the crowd, vanishing amongst the bodies. Ricky sat back, fingers playing with the rim of his glass. He was just being paranoid, panicked. The dark and the solitude had warped with his ability to see the facts clearly for what they were. It had been all the thoughts on Tinsley and Fear and the LCD, messing with his mind and making him see threats and dangers that were never even present to begin with. 

Maybe, if he repeated that to himself for the next hour, he would start believing it. Or he could get hammered and pretend the entire scenario was a bad dream. Ricky took another long drink, before setting the glass back down on the bar with a thud. The ice made a tinkling sound as it clinked together. 


	4. He Better Not Stand Me Up

Despite the heat, Tinsley kept his hat tugged low over his head. There were plenty of tall people still alive and well in the city, but having something to obscure such easily recognizable coloring as his light hair and eyes kept him from being made by anyone looking for him. He had foregone the trench coat; it was a bit too recognizable. Besides, it was too hot for a trench coat. Even as he approached the docks, Tinsley kept himself in a simple shirt and slacks attire, though he was still sporting a tie. 

The docks hadn't been his idea. In his solitude, Tinsley had come to detest open spaces; there were far too many variables within them. But Mayor had insisted, that night outside of _Ricky's_ , that the docks were the best place to meet whatever informant he could drum up. Something about the noise of the docks being able to mask any conversation from potential eavesdroppers and stalkers. Tinsley didn't particularly care. As long as whoever Mayor procured was able to get him closer to Banjo McClintock and the LCD, Tinsley would bend his rules and meet wherever. Finishing this was more important than his personal comforts.

Finding Mayor himself had been tough enough. There had been, after all, the brief stint where Tinsley had thought that the information he'd gotten on the man had been referring to the actual mayor, and not just someone unfortunate enough to have Mayor as a last name. Once that had been squared away, it was all about trying to get him alone and isolated enough that Mayor would be able to get Tinsley what he needed. What exactly that was, he wasn't entirely sure. Tinsley was still marveling at the fact that he finally seemed to be on the right track. Banjo's name (or, more likely, alias, given that Dr. Fear's townhouse had been under that same name as well) had popped up with increasing speed into Tinsley's LCD investigation. Hopefully, whoever Mayor sent would bring Tinsley one step closer to the man himself. 

So lost was he in his own thoughts, Tinsley wasn't even aware there was an obstruction in his path until his feet tripped over it. Typical. The world could be ending, and C.C. Tinsley would still be an absolute klutz. Down he tumbled, scraping his knee against the stone in the process, hands shooting out in front of him to break his fall. They braced against something damp and covered in cloth. For a moment, the former detective wondered if he'd stumbled over a pile of washing someone had dumped out onto the street. Or maybe a sleeping homeless person who had been rained upon. But, Tinsley gathered his bearings, and he looked down. 

It took all his willpower not to scream. 

The first thing anyone would notice about the body was that it was completely drenched with blood. The man had to have been freshly killed; it was still damp and sticky on his body, on his clothes, on his coat, on Tinsley's front and his hands. The throat had been slit from ear to ear, so deep it was almost a decapatation, the cut wet and glistening and wide, like a second smile. Tinsley could see the bone. This had to be the cut that killed. But there was another one, deep and jagged along the lower abdomen, as if the killer had been planning to pull out intestines. There was blood around the groin too; the knife had gone there as well. The head was sagging to the side, almost torn off from the slash, eyes wide and staring open in death. The tongue lolled like a pale slug. 

Tinsley made a choked noise and scrambled away. He could feel himself shaking, and almost fell again as he tried to stagger to his feet. Backing away, he clapped a hand over his mouth to stop himself from making a sound and alerting somebody. He could taste the victim's blood on his palm, and jerked away from his own hand, feeling his stomach roil. His thoughts were racing, a thousand of them flitting through his mind in mere seconds. His breath was the only sound, rapid and shallow inhales in the quiet of the hot night. 

The naive part of Tinsley's brain wanted to believe that this was a coincidence. That, through no action of his own other than walking towards the docks, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, he had stumbled across some poor unfortunate soul who had the bad luck of running afoul with someone who had a penchant for knife play. That this had nothing to do with him. But Tinsley didn't have the luxury of being naive, not now and not ever. This body was way too close to where he was supposed to meet the person Mayor had sent for this to not be connected. If Tinsley was smart - and he was fairly certain that he was - he would guess that this body, this exsanguinate and mutilated and castrated and hacked apart body, was the very person he was supposed to meet. Somehow, the man had been found out. Maybe Mayor had gone chicken and reported everything? Had the informant slipped up somehow? Logically, it didn't matter; the man was dead either way and wouldn't give Tinsley any information now. Illogically, thinking about it was the only way for Tinsley not to throw up in the gutter. 

And then, another thought, a terrifying thought. Did they know? Did they know about Tinsley; did they know that the story that he'd perished in the Palazzo Vecchio fire was only a story? Had they been stringing him along the whole time? Were they going to come for him now? Now, after he'd spent so much time thinking he was safe? After he'd spent so much time thinking that, at the very least, the people who'd tried to kill him would think they succeeded, wouldn't try again? Panic rocked Tinsley's entire body at the mere guess of it. 

He ran. He ran and he ran and he ran, long legs pumping, going as swift as he possibly could, away from the body and the blood and the docks, his lungs burning the faster he fled. He ran until he could run no longer, until the body was out of sight. Then, and only then, did Tinsley stop, sucking in ragged gusts of air, bent over, hands braced against his knees. Calm. He had to keep calm. He had to think clearly, and think rationally. Whatever the circumstances surrounding it, there was a dead body by the docks. Someone would find it eventually. So what should Tinsley do? 

Report it, a tiny voice said in his head. Just in case someone saw you there. Phone it in to the authorities, and eliminate yourself as a suspect. Another part of Tinsley brought up the possibility that phoning it in might place him on the top of the suspect list, but was quickly overruled. Being presumed dead had made him harder, yes, but it hadn't completely stripped him of a moral compass. Straightening, he swept strands of feathery blond hair back under his hat, blue eyes scanning around the empty streets, latching onto the first door he saw. 

It took a few minutes of Tinsley banging his fist against the wood before it finally opened. The young man who answered was small and mousy, and he immediately let out a shriek when she saw Tinsley. Without thinking, he pressed a hand to her throat, shoving them both inside and closing the door behind him with his foot. The man shook. 

"I need to use your phone," Tinsley whispered. His voice was the loudest thing in the dark. The man jerked his head to the side; the shadows Tinsley could make out the outline of a phone. "Please be quiet." He withdrew his hand, and when his unwilling host remained silent, Tinsley moved to the phone. He dialed the only number he could, and prayed that nearly two years of silence on his end was enough to keep the person he was calling from putting the dots together. 

"Officer Chartris." Tinsley wet his lips. The last time he'd talked to Chartris had been just as things were about to start heating up in the Sodder case, around the same time that they'd discovered Artemus Ogletree at that hellish motel outside the city; that had been a while ago. Maybe he wouldn't recognize Tinsley's voice. 

"I'd like to report a murder." He kept his voice low, a hiss. Speaking in a clear voice would be counterproductive right now. Tinsley heard Chartris suck in a breath. 

"I'm sorry, a what?" 

"A murder," Tinsley repeated, hands clutching the phone so tightly he could feel them begin to go numb. "Down by the docks. There's a man. His throat's been cut. It looks really bad. I don't know what happened, but you need to get people down there as fast as you can." There was a silence, and in it Tinsley could hear the scratching of a pen. Hopefully that meant Chartris was writing down all the information Tinsley had to give. "He hasn't been dead for very long," Tinsley added. The static crackled with a sigh. 

"We'll get officers down there as soon as we can," Chartris told him, voice coolly professional. "Can you give me your name, sir? For the records." Tinsley's throat went dry. 

"I'm sorry." His voice was hoarse. There was an intake of breath from Chartris's end. 

"I..." He sounded contemplative, as if he was trying to piece information together. God fucking dammit! Tinsley hung up immediately, phone crashing down on the receiver. He was just jittery from finding the body, he reminded himself. The blond man glanced down at his hands, and almost recoiled back. He forgot that they were still caked with the now drying, flaking blood. It was still on his front, too, along with the skinned knee from his fall, and no doubt there were smears of it on his face. Tinsley closed his eyes for a moment, centering himself. This night had not gone according to plan. 

"Everything OK?" The other man's voice, high and squeaky, trembled just the slightest bit. For a moment, Tinsley had forgotten he was there. He nodded his head, and for some unknown, godforsaken reason, straightened his shirt cuffs. 

"Yeah," he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. "Thanks." Tinsley moved to go, brushing past the other man on his way to the door. And then he stopped. This man had seen him. This man had seen him, covered in blood and wild eyed, reporting a murder with accurate detail and refusing to divulge personal information. One did not have to be as sharp minded as Tinsley to start putting clues together, and realize that a gory and mysterious stranger ranting about death would probably warrant a visit from the police. 

Tinsley couldn't have that. He had worked hard to make sure everyone thought he was a pile of ashes and blackened bone and melted flesh buried underneath Italian rubble. For his own safety and that of others, others that he loved, he couldn't have that jeopardized. Not by anyone, for any reason. 

So Tinsley did not grab the doorknob and disappear into the night. Instead, he stood there for a while, looking the door, grappling with decisions. Behind him, facing away from him, back to back, was the unfortunate man who had answered his insistent knocking. One of them had the misfortune of being in the wrong place, at the wrong time. The other was tall and covered in someone else's blood. What happened next would only take a matter of seconds, maybe a minute at maximum. With careful precision, Tinsley took off his hat and set it aside. He then unknotted his tie and pulled it off his neck, before looping the ends of the fabric carefully around his knuckles. With deadly speed, he whirled around and wrapped the tie around the unsuspecting man's neck, using all the strength he had to pull as hard as he could. The fabric dug into the man's throat harshly, cutting off his oxygen, depriving him of breath. 


	5. Emergency Services

Not for the first time in her life, and most certainly not for the last, Louise saw the buildings and the roads awash in lights that flickered between red, white, and blue. It gave the entire area a sort of dreamlike hue. Everything seemed to shimmer with the colors. _American flag lights_ , she thought to herself. As if the star spangled banner had liquified itself into light, a light passing over all of them, a light that denoted death and decay and destruction, murder and mayhem, fire and fury. Odd, and yet somewhat apt, if one chose to be cynical. Sometimes, Louise chose to be cynical.

A crowd had gathered by the crime scene, no doubt a mixture of concerned citizens and creeps alike, all trying to figure out what exactly was going on. Louise deftly maneuvered through the bodies, and ducked under the yellow police tape, striding over to where the officers were huddled around something that, from a distance, could be confused with a store mannequin. 

It, of course, wasn't a store mannequin. As Louise drew closer, she fought the urge to gag. The body was positively soaked in blood, and clearly whoever had done this had death in mind when they had begun their work. There was also something clearly sadistic about it. The killer wanted to inflict pain along with the extensive damage. Louise curled her fingers in to her palm, meeting Chartris's eyes. 

"Do we know who this is?" Chartris shook his head. 

"Some male prostitute or vagrant or something," he told her. "There's no identification, and he doesn't seem to match any current missing persons reports at first glance." Louise nodded, narrowing her dark eyes slightly. 

"You're the one who called this in?" she said. Chartris nodded, a vertical line appearing between a furrowed brow. 

"Yeah. Someone called my personal number and told me about this." Louise resisted the urge to make a confused face at that. "I didn't recognize the voice, I don't think, and whoever called didn't give a name or any way of identifying him." 

"You think it might have been the killer?" Chartris shook his head. 

"He didn't seem to be gloating or anything, the way most killers are when they make contact with the authorities. He just seemed scared, and a little bit guilty about not being able to tell me more than he already had." Louise nodded, and fixed her eyes back on the body. She crouched down next to the body, keeping her extremities close to her person and making sure to touch nothing, both out of respect for preserving the crime scene and a desire not to get blood on herself and immediately throw up. 

"I'm assuming the cut to the throat was the one that killed him," she said, nodding towards the almost decapitating, lolling head. 

"That's the preliminary idea, yeah." Chartris moved closer to her, likely to get a better look at the body. "I don't think it was the only antemortem cut, though. My basic guess - and I'll get the coroner to tell me whether I'm right or not - is that whoever did this likely went for the gut first, to incapacitate. Then he dove into the castration," Louise winced, "did some more work on the stomach, and likely slit the throat then." Louise breathed a shuddering sigh. 

"Sounds methodical." She stood. Her palms were sweaty as she brushed them against her legs. "Almost preplanned. Not like the last ones." Chartris hummed. 

"Preplanned, maybe," he acquiesced. "But this wasn't entirely controlled. It looks like whoever did this had an idea, then got excited, and got a little sloppy. It's not as precise as it could be, as it should be given how the killer knew how to cut. It looks like it induced an emotion, just like the other two." 

"Ugh." Louise curled her lip distastefully, taking a step back. "Getting excited over eviscerating someone...What kind of psychopathic behavior is that?" The multicolored lights continued to flicker, reflecting off the blood in different hues. Louise tried hard not to focus on it. 

"It might be the same psychopath from the first two." Chartris looked at her, almost nervously. "Do you think we have a serial killer on our hands?" Louise tilted her head, looking from the body to the rest of the docks to the shiny, black expanse of water a little bit beyond. 

"What's the serial killer criteria?" she asked softly. She itched to pace, to fidget, but Louise was also very conscious of the crowd staring at the law enforcement beyond the police tape. If they saw one sign of weakness from an official figure, one sign that they were stumped, they would all panic. So she instead worried her lip between her teeth for a while, the sharp scrape against tender skin bringing some kind of focus. "You have to have three or more victims, killed at three different points in time, often times with a very specific signature that denotes some form of psychological or sexual gratification." Chartris made a _blegh_ sound in the back of his throat. Louise turned to look at him in full. "Yes, we've now got three bodies who've been killed at three separate times this summer, and yes it looks like the killer or killers liked a knife. But this is the first time that we're seeing any type of mutilation, or even any type of premeditation at all that would explain something other than a sudden crime of passion." Louise ran her fingers through her dark hair. "I don't know if we can classify this as a serial killer yet. Definitely not to the public." 

"That's your professional analysis?" Chartris didn't sound impressed. Louise was about to snap back that she was a lawyer, that she was the one in charge of prosecuting whoever they were supposed to catch, and that it wasn't actually her job to come up with theories or be helpful or even show up to the crime scene to offer any type of aid whatsoever. But she didn't, because something caught the corner of her eye. It was on pure chance that she glanced back towards the growing crowd just in time to see two very familiar faces. One tall and lanky, dark hair sticking up in every which way, with his partner noticeably smaller and clutching at a camera. Louise thinned her lips, and made a waving hand motion to Chartris. She would get back to them later. Right now, she had something else to deal with. Heels clicking against the asphalt, Louise strode to the police line, already shaking her head. 

"Uh uh, guys, you can't be here." Ryan Bergara was already raising his camera before Louise pressed her hand over the lens and forced it back down. 

"Hey hey hey!" he admonished, turning away from her as if offended. "This is a very expensive piece of equipment." She hoped that her chuckle didn't sound as fond as she thought it might. "Besides, we just want to get a beginner's guide on what's going on." Shane Madej had a pencil gripped in his long fingered hands, poised over a fresh notebook. 

"If you want a guide on what's going on, wait for the police press release like everyone else," Louise told them. She tried to walk away from them and down the police line. They followed like newborn ducks. "Guys, I'm serious, I can't tell you anything." 

"Then why are you here?" Shane asked shrewdly. 

"I was in the area." Louise swiveled to face the two reporters again. "And that's off the record, by the way. This whole conversation that we're not about to have is." 

"And yet, we're having it," Ryan pointed out. She rolled her eyes. She had admired how much _Unsolved_ had taken off since they'd all banded together during the Sodder case; she'd even gotten a subscription to the newspaper just for the weekly column alone (that, and Shane's new cartoon series). But she also knew that she wasn't going to divulge any information to reporters, no matter how close of friends they might be or how helpful they were in an anti evil corrupt secret society crusade. 

"Look, you two'll get everything when everyone else gets it, and then you can investigate this to your hearts' content." Louise turned to go. 

"OK, but off the record, do you think this has something to do with the body that was also found tonight a few blocks down?" She stopped, and looked back at them. It didn't look like some kind of journalistic tactic. It looked like Shane had just blurted it out, incapable of keeping it a secret. Louise said nothing, but jerked her head to the left. Ducking back under the police tape, she led the other two men into the shadows of a nearby building, away from all the hoopla. 

"A what?" Shane and Ryan looked at each other. 

"When we were coming here we saw a police car over by this little ground floor apartment, and they were talking about some body in there," Ryan explained. Louise thinned her lips. "Strangled or something, with some kind of cloth, from...?" He looked at Shane expectantly.

"From behind," Shane finished. "All sneak attack like." Probably not the killer here, then. Why garrote someone with a handkerchief when you had a knife? Louise blew a sigh out through her lips, crossing her arms over her chest. 

"Humans murder each other way too much," she grumbled. Ryan nodded in empathic agreement. Shane made a noncommittal humming sound, though he did lean forward, as if about to divulge some very clandestine information. 

"Do you think..." he hesitated, and then started again. "Do you think...that this has anything to do with...you know." She did know. But she also didn't know. Louise had no reason to suspect the LCD of being behind any rash of crazy knife killings of now three as of yet unidentified people. Nor did she have any reason for them to think they'd strangle some random guy in his apartment. But, of course, if any group of people could have a reason for doing something seemingly nonsensical and confusing, it would be them. 

"You want my answer as a friend or as your District Attorney?" 

"The former," Ryan said. At that, Louise shrugged. 

"As your friend, I have absolutely no clue," she admitted. "Ricky's been going over everything LCD related that he can, but there's nothing he's worked on or investigated in the last five months that would warrant going out and murdering random vagrants and street dwellers. And nothing's come across my desk that's giving me pause." 

"Yeah, we haven't found anything overtly creepy in that patented LCD way either," Ryan added. Shane's face twisted into a displeased grimace. No doubt he was just as annoyed at the conundrum as the rest of them all were. "Any word on Cooper?" 

"Last message I got from him was just him telling me that he was all right, and quite possibly in New Jersey." 

"Yeah, but is anyone in New Jersey ever _really_ all right?" Shane's biting sarcasm managed to loosen some of the tension in the air, and made the heat and nerves seem less prominent than they all were. Louise relaxed her shoulders, having not even realized how tense they were. It seemed that they were almost always like that. 

"Look, as a friend and not as your District Attorney, you two'll be one of the first to know if I figure out that there's something suspicious going on relating back to the LCD," she promised them. "But, as your District Attorney, you guys are going to have to wait for the information along with all the rest of these poor saps." 

"But we're so much better than them," Shane whined. This time, Louise did laugh. With a quick wave, she spun on her heel and walked back towards the crowd, under the yellow police tape and back towards Chartris and the the body, the police lights still swimming in different colors. 


	6. Barside Shakedown

Tinsley didn't get drunk anymore. To be fair, he never really got drunk before, but now, especially now, he didn't even let the thought cross his mind. One couldn't be precise and careful, yet also shitfaced at the same time. But certain recent events were allowing him to make an exception this time, and he was currently draining his second beer over at _Ricky's_ , face propped up on hands propped up by elbows propped up against the bar. He rubbed at his eyes tiredly. 

For a moment, Tinsley thought about simply falling asleep on the bar. He felt exhausted, physically and mentally. His eyelids felt heavy. Tinsley closed his eyes and fought back a yawn, scrubbing his hands over his face. Maybe he'd take a nap later, but thinking about passing out in a public space wouldn't necessarily work in his favor. Tinsley breathed a sigh, and pulled his hands away, downing the last of his drink, staring at the swirls in the wood of the bar. He looked up at the sound of someone else entering _Ricky's_ ; given how early in the evening it was, Tinsley hadn't expected any newcomers. 

Mayor looked somewhat jittery, pale hands fidgeting in on themselves. It didn't look as if he'd spotted Tinsley yet, ensconced in the shadows and keeping quiet to himself. But Tinsley noticed him, and almost immediately felt the fatigue lift from his bones. Now, he was just pissed. The blond man pushed his stool back with a screech, and with only a few strides of his long legs was upon Mayor, who went pale. Tinsley grabbed the other man by his collar and hauled him out of _Ricky's_ , hauled him into that same side alley from the first night they'd made each other's acquaintance. There was a strong urge to smack him as Tinsley released his hold on Mayor's clothes and shoved the other man away, but he stuck to his principles. 

"You wanna tell me what the fuck that was about?" Tinsley's voice had all the anger of a hiss and all the volume of a shout. Mayor straightened and glared at him. 

"That's my question to ask, don't you think?" 

" _Don't_ play stupid with me, Mayor," Tinsley snapped, pushing tufts of blond hair out of his eyes. "I do what you ask, go to the place you said I'd get info, and what do I get instead? The bloody, mangled corpse of the person who was supposed to help me out." Mayor bit down on his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth.

"Look-" He started, and then cut himself off again. Tinsley's rage still smoldered, deep in his chest. He shouldn't be angry, not really. Mayor was, after all, LCD. He was intimately familiar with how much of a scumbag you had to be to be a member. He shouldn't have expected anything less than subterfuge and traitorous tendencies. Still, he felt angry.

"So what happened?" TInsley asked, tone acerbic. "What went wrong? Did you chicken out and give us up? Was it a set up from the start? Did you tell you and your pals about me?" Mayor held up a sharp hand; his eyes hard as they bore into Tinsley's.  

"Will you shut the fuck up for five minutes?" he demanded through his teeth. Tinsley complied, though he did cross his arms. His foot itched to tap with impatience. "I didn't sell you out. I didn't tell anyone about anything. Not you being alive, not what I was doing for you, nothing." Tinsley scoffed. 

"For me..." He shook his head. "What, like you're doing me a favor?" 

"Hell yeah I'm doing you a favor," Mayor told him. "I'm putting my ass on the line because you need to know more about McClintock, so don't act like I'm not doing you a huge solid." 

"Because you're too much of a coward to do it on your own," Tinsley bit out. Mayor gave a firm nod. 

"Damn straight." Tinsley's brows jumped. He wasn't used to someone being that upfront with their own shortcomings. In the back of his mind, he heard what Ricky Goldsworth would have said: _I'm not a coward, I'm just pragmatic, and a realist!_ "I'm not an idiot, Tins. I'm not getting on this thing's bad side unless it's for a really good reason." 

"Don't call me Tins," Tinsley snapped. There was a lapse into silence, and they both seemed to breathe out their anger. Tinsley did, at least, the churning feeling becoming a little less with each inhale and exhale that he took. "OK." It was softer this time, in tone and volume. "So...what happened?" Mayor shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets, giving a shrug. 

"I honestly don't know," came his reply. "I kept this close to the vest, I swear to God. I absolutely have no clue how the LCD found out about the informant. Or if it was even the LCD at all." 

"What do you mean 'if'?" Tinsley asked, incredulous. "Who else would it be?" Mayor looked at him, and for the first time Tinsley noticed that Mayor had blue eyes as well. Much paler, almost washed out in color. 

"There's talk of a serial killer." Mayor's voice dipped, as if he thought that this purported killer would be summoned by mere mention alone. "Not from the police, or from other law enforcement officials like the District Attorney, but there were four bodies found this summer. Two in the same night." Tinsley resisted the urge to cringe in on himself about that. One body had been the one he'd found. The other had been the one he'd made. It still gnawed at him. "So, it could be that the guy I sent you was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and was just this guy's victim. Not their's." No need to ask who _they_ was. Tinsley dropped his gaze to the stone of the alley. It was less wet than it had been the last time they'd both been out here. 

"A serial killer in the city and the LCD in the city are not mutually exclusive," he murmured. Mayor scuffed his shoe on the ground. The quiet between them was thick, tense, and full of unanswered questions. In the back of his mind, Tinsley was still wondering. Had Mayor set him up? Was Mayor setting him up now? Was everything, every word between them since that first night outside _Ricky's_ , just a lie? Tinsley wanted to say no. He wanted to keep on believing in the good in people, that he'd gotten through to Mayor's better nature and that he really did have something similar to an ally, if not an ally itself. Yet still, the small part of him that he'd brought back from Italy, the part that had dealt with the LCD and Dr. Fear and everything since then, felt distrustful, apprehensive. It left him conflicted. 

"They don't know about you." Tinsley glanced up at Mayor's words, his shoulders tightening. "If they knew you were alive, we'd all be hearing about it. They don't know." This did nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders. "And I wouldn't tell them. I really, _genuinely_ , thought that I was giving you a helpful push towards your endgame in your quest to find McClintock." The two stared at each other, blue on blue. Mayor's dark hair fell in tufts across his foreheads, and when he took a step forward, Tinsley took a quick step back, jaw clenching. Mayor didn't move again. 

"I believe you." It was a leap of faith still in the making. "But it is important that I find McClintock. I wouldn't be trying this hard if it wasn't absolutely necessary. As necessary as it is that you don't tell anyone about me." Mayor just looked at him, almost as if to say _I just said that I haven't told anyone_. "However you're keeping this a secret, you need to keep on doing that." 

"I know how dangerous they can be," Mayor told him. Tinsley said nothing. "Trust me." Tinsley tried not to think of the irony of that statement, what with their current predicament and life choices. 

He was about to respond, too, with what he still wasn't exactly sure, before the side door scraped open, and both men turned to look at the newcomer. Francesca Norris stared at them both with pitch dark, inquisitive eyes, face completely neutral. 

"Everything all right here, boys?" Her voice was slow and melodic. Tinsley and Mayor both nodded. 

"Yeah. We were just finishing up." Neither meeting Tinsley's gaze nor attempting to say anything akin to a goodbye, or really any type of sentence, to him, Mayor ducked between them and slipped back into Ricky's. This just left the two of them, Tinsley and Francesca, to stare at each other. He pulled at a loose thread hanging on his shirt cuff. 

"You're sure everything's OK?" Francesca asked again. Tinsley bit down on the inside of his cheek. Francesca took a step forward, letting the door close behind her, and laid a gentle hand on Tinsley's arm. "Chin up, Charlie." There was a healthy mix of humor and sarcasm in her voice. Somehow, this managed to wring a laugh from Tinsley's tired body. 

"There were some complications," he admitted. "It should all get sorted out eventually." Francesca nodded, before focusing on his face. Tinsley glanced away, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. 

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried about you, Tinsley." He thinned his lips. "I get this is important to you. But there's other stuff happening as well, scary stuff. And things are dangerous now. You need to tread with caution." 

"I'm still alive right now, aren't I?" 

"And we both know how close that came to not being true at all." Tinsley took a step back, and Francesca's scarlet nailed hand dropped from his arm. All the warring emotions in him seemed to calcify, freezing into one overwhelming feeling, a feeling as warm and comfortable as slipping into a second skin might be reminiscent of: the feeling of determination. 

"I'm going to be careful," he promised. "But I'm also going to see everything about this entire saga through, all the way to its end." _Its bitter end._


End file.
